


direct me to the sun

by dialecstatic



Series: you are whatever a moon has always meant [2]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Character, Recovery, Trans Character, read note for details please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 10:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dialecstatic/pseuds/dialecstatic
Summary: yuta takes a leap of faith





	direct me to the sun

**Author's Note:**

> \- the self-harm tag is there because i refer to picking at skin (of the fingers) a couples times throughout the fic, which some consider self harm and some might not, but i'd rather be safe than sorry  
> \- there is also a single reference to overdosing (though nothing at all actually happens) so be careful & mindful of that
> 
> additionally, only she/her is used for yuta throughout this, but they still use alternating pronouns in the verse as a whole~
> 
> title from 'only the young' by brandon flowers

Yuta stares at the wallpaper until the shapes on it blur together, until she can’t see anymore.

She can hear the faint sound of a pen to paper, something being written down for her to take, to absorb, something that she knows will only numb the pain until it rears its ugly head again. The beast inside only sleeps, and she’s starting to think she can never kill it.

“Yuta?” the doctor’s voice comes into focus, low and grave and so patronizing it makes her want to scream. “Here’s your prescription. Will I see you next week?”

Slowly, like gravity is inexorably pulling her down, Yuta rises from her seat. “You know you will.”

Neither of them say another word.

She walks down the corridor with heavy steps, clutching the piece of paper that’s trying to tell her it will all get better. She doesn’t know if she believes it, if she ever has.

It’s been two months and Yuta tries her hardest to convince herself this is the right course of action, the only one, because kicking and screaming and crying herself to sleep while holding her bloody knuckles has gone out style. Living like that isn’t an option anymore, not when she’s so close to being set free into the world.

Still she feels like something weighs her down, something she can’t see, or can’t say, even as she comes back week after week and empties the contents of her heart and guts onto the doctor’s hardwood desk.

The door clicks open and she pushes it with her shoulder, take a deep breath before she steps into the waiting room. Looking around, all she sees is emptiness. In the vacant seats, in the deafening silence, in the eyes of the people who are sitting there. Yuta wonders if anyone is waiting for them, and her eyes find the seat where she waited, just over an hour earlier.

Sicheng isn’t here.

Sicheng hasn’t been here for a while.

In the first month or so, when everything about this was new and more terrifying than any attacks had ever been, Yuta had let Sicheng come with her, their warmth at her side and their hand in hers when they walked through the door. Yuta thinks perhaps she needed the reminder that she wasn’t going through it alone, that someone would be waiting on the other side of the door, ready to catch her.

It didn’t occur to Yuta until a few weeks in, when she was curled up in Sicheng’s arms and numb from a particularly rough session, that it was this very thing that was holding her back. Sicheng’s presence, Sicheng’s promise, everything she clung to in a desperate bid to stay right where she is, to not venture farther into her own mind. 

So she’d sat up and held Sicheng’s hands, swallowed up her pride and her pain. 

“I don’t want you to put yourself through this for me.”

Sicheng said nothing, maybe already aware of what it had taken Yuta so long to realize. 

“I can’t- I can’t keep using you as a crutch, I can’t just fall back on this, on us, on you, it’s not fair, it’s not…”

It’s not right, and Yuta knows it now. At the time it had felt like she was ripping something out of her own chest and nearly taking her heart with it. 

“I’m going to get better. I will. But I can’t ask you to do it for me.”

Looking back, Yuta remembers how Sicheng had simply looked at her, and listened, and held her hands until she was done. She still sees the acknowledgment in their eyes, how they’d smiled and said they were proud of her, how they’d leaned over and kissed her forehead, not a goodbye, but a see you later.

And then, Yuta had let go.

  
  
  


She pulls her jacket tighter around herself as she walks down the corridor that leads to the street. The evenings have gotten colder without warning, without any of them realizing until they were all blowing on their fingers while waiting for the bus, and Yuta had gotten on towards a different direction.

Today she’s wearing paint-stained gloves, a purple smudge across the back of the left hand, tries to scrape it off as she crosses the street. It’s a better distraction than scratching at her own skin, blood bubbling up to the surface, staining everything in sight. 

The pharmacist is about as stone-faced as always, reading Yuta’s prescription like he would a phonebook. He hands her the paper bag without a word, takes her money without a word, and she leaves as fast as she came in, hiding the bag away in her backpack. It isn’t much, she knows, just something to numb her nerves and help her sleep at night, but she follows the instructions anyway, this one three times a day during meals, this one thirty minutes before sleep, don’t mix the two, don’t forget, don’t overdose.

She hasn’t wanted to, and maybe that’s progress.

The hallway is empty when Yuta gets back to the dorms. 

In the middle of the floor of her room, there’s an unfinished piece, loose threads hanging from every side, the frame slightly bent from how hard she pulled on it that morning. She picks it up, sits on her bed with her jacket still on, gloves shoved into the pocket, her cold fingers molding the metal back into place. Her toolbox is half open at the foot of the bed and she stretches out to reach it, hooks and balls of wool tumbling into her lap, the small box of nails almost spilling its contents all over the comforter.

Her midterm assignment is abandoned on her desk but Yuta feels no urgency as she starts pulling at the threads, tangling them up together and watching the shape change with no clear goal in mind, only trying to get what’s inside of her head out in the open, to take a good look at it.

Yuta’s eyes dart to the flyer Kun had given her the week before, pinned to the wall above her bed. An art exhibition, still a week away, in some tiny gallery none of them had ever heard of, somewhere in the underbelly of the city, organized by a collective Yuta had seen the name of on banners and motorbikes during protests. She knows it’s safe, at least, but that’s all she can figure out.

“You should submit something.” Kun had said. “I think your art is exactly what they’re looking for.”

Whatever her art is, Yuta has never been able to pinpoint. It always feels like spitting out her soul, and all the bile and bad blood that comes with it, but her professors call it avant-garde while she just calls it confessing.

Looking out the window she notices that the sun has already set, the last of the pink-painted sky disappearing behind clouds. Her stomach growls, and she lets herself fall back on the pillows, needles and thread abandoned in her lap.

A shiver runs through her body, making her shoulders tighten. The walls of the room feel like they’re closing in on her, and it’s cold, so cold it bites into her skin and settles beneath her bones, like she’ll never be warm again.

Even as she tries to keep her promise to herself, there’s a little voice of reason at the back of her head that tells her she shouldn’t deal with this by ignoring it. She’s taken enough time to learn the difference between relying on yourself and isolating yourself to know which one she shouldn’t give in to.

At this hour, when the night drops its curtains on the city, there’s only one place to go. 

It isn’t too far away, thankfully. Taeyong chose the place because it’s near the dance studio, just a few streets from campus, safe enough to walk around at night. Even then Yuta balls her fists up in her pockets, ready to swing.

Her joints ache from the pressure when she punches the number in to unlock the door, but the buzzing noise lets her in and she stumbles into the hall, climbs the stairs to Taeyong’s floor two by two.

It takes only one knock for Taeyong to open, drowning in their sweater, eyes full of questions and concern.

“Don't have anything to eat at the dorm.” Yuta mutters, shifting from foot to foot.

Taeyong runs a hand through their hair. “Dinner’s on the stove. Come in.”

As always, the place is pristine, only wrinkled sheets an indication that Taeyong spent the day here. Something simmers in the kitchenette, the smell of meat and vegetables and spices filling the room. It’s warm and comforting, just what the two of them need. 

When she sits on the edge of the bed, Yuta notices a stack of papers, the seal of a school she doesn’t know adorning the front page. Taeyong’s handwriting peeks out from a form underneath.

“Your next destination?” Yuta calls, pointing to the papers when Taeyong turns around.

They smile timidly, but earnestly still. “Yeah. It’s just on the other side of the city, though. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, Yongie.” _Not anymore_ , Yuta wants to add, but she leaves it at that, because Taeyong doesn’t need a reminder of the grim things that used to be. “Shouldn’t you actually send it, though?” 

She walks over to Taeyong’s tiny table when they put plates and bowls down, muttering a thank you under her breath. 

“You’re welcome.” Taeyong smiles, pulling another stool out from under the table. “And yeah. I’m sending it out on Monday.” 

There’s a tremor in their voice, and Yuta is pleased to notice it’s excitement rather than fear. Taeyong has spent so long wondering what to do and where to go, searching for a crack to slip through, and now the road is clear finally, just a letter away.

“You’ll definitely get in.” she says around a mouthful, ignoring Taeyong’s exaggerated complaint. “And then you can give Kun a run for her money.” 

Taeyong snorts, hanging their head over their plate for a second. “She helped me write my cover letter, actually.”

“Of course she did.” Yuta quips, completely unsurprised and yet happy all the same. She wouldn’t be surprised if Kun had offered before Taeyong could even ask. “Then yeah, no worries. Smooth sailing from here.”

Maybe if she keeps saying it, if she keeps seeing it happen for other people, it’ll be true for her too.

“Right.” Taeyong holds her gaze, and they’re still one of the only people Yuta can’t hide from. “What about you?”

She isn’t sure. The art show is only a week away but it feels like a lifetime, like she still has so much work to do, on her piece and on herself, before she can get there. 

“I don’t think I’m continuing with school.” Yuta pushes the vegetables around in her bowl. “For now, I’m freewheeling until graduation.” 

Taeyong chews on the last of their mouthful. “You’re doing that art show, right?” 

“Yeah. I guess I am. The piece is… Kind of coming together?” she lies, because it’s easier. She just needs to promise herself that it’s the last time.

Somehow, she can tell Taeyong doesn’t believe her, so she concentrates on wolfing down the rest of her meal, licks her lips when she’s done. She ends up biting on her lower lip so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t draw blood, and even with her eyes open, all she sees are threads that lead nowhere.

“Yuta.” 

Taeyong stands up, plates and bowls abandoned. The floor creaks as they round the table, sit on the edge of the bed near where Yuta settled. 

“How have you been doing?” they repeat the question, and Yuta knows they’ll continue to until they get the truth out of her. 

The truth that Yuta isn’t even sure she holds.

“I’m working on it. On me. I’m- I just… It’s not the same, you know?” she stutters out, tries to keep her composure. “I thought I’d be able to get through this alone, that it’s the best thing to do, the only thing to do, but-”

She closes her eyes, and something pricks behind her eyelids, a burning sensation she tries to chase away.

Taeyong reaches a hand out to take hers, and she lets them.

“But I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Yuta blurts out, fighting the knot that’s stuck in her throat. 

Taeyong doesn’t say anything. Instead, they walk to the wall closet and start rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of worn out sweatpants. They walk towards her and hand her the clothes, bumps their foreheads together as they pull her up from her seat. “You don’t have to justify yourself. Not to me, not to anyone.”

“I just miss them, you know?” Yuta holds the bundle tightly to her chest. “But I still- I can’t go back. I need to do this myself.” Saying it out loud still takes her breath away. “It just gets harder as the nights get longer.”

She isn’t sure where she’s going, or what she wants to say exactly, just hopes that Taeyong understands somehow. They come to wrap their arms around her waist, chin propped up on her shoulder. “I know.” Somehow, it’s enough. “You wanna take a hot shower and then cuddle?”

Yuta isn’t sure when the tears started gathering at the corners of her eyes, but she wipes them away with her sleeve and nods, letting out a shaky breath. 

  
  
  


The table is clean and Taeyong is already in bed when Yuta comes out of the shower, picking at some stray threads on their sweater. They open their arms when they see Yuta walk toward them, a smile on their face like they’re a kid at their first slumber party. 

Yuta welcomes it, lets herself fall on the bed and in Taeyong’s arms. They let out a yelp when she crashes into them, the mattress dipping under their weight, a mess of limbs that they take a few minutes to sort out. Taeyong wraps their arms around her when they’re settled, and Yuta gives in to the warmth and the comfort, lays their head on Taeyong’s chest to listen to the sound of their heartbeat.

“Do you remember, our second year, the first protest we went to after we met Ten?” Taeyong says softly. “Those people that were there to try and shut us down, two of them jumped in and tried to start a fight.”

Without thinking about it, Yuta runs two fingers over the knuckles of her other hand. She’s washed the fight off of them a long time ago, but it still lingers in her bones. 

“You weren’t having any of it. I think that dude lost a tooth.” Taeyong laughs as they speak, and in hindsight Yuta thinks it is kind of funny, how these people never expected her to fight back. She did, she always will. She remembers that day, and every other day before and after that, when she ended up on the floor of the dorm’s bathroom or in the emergency room, never regretting a single punch, a single scratch. 

There’s not a day she wouldn’t do it all over again.

“Then last year, after Doyoung’s birthday, these sleazeballs that were lurking outside the bar…” Taeyong continues, like they’re trying to fill the silence. “Could have ruined the night, if you hadn’t been there.”

“Taeil did throw their shoe at them.” Yuta snorts at the memory of Taeil riding the bus home with one foot up on the seat, how they’d tried to plead with someone to carry them to their front door.

Taeyong laughs out, sinking further down on the bed. “Yeah, that too. But you were the one who really chased them off.” 

Here within the four walls of Taeyong’s apartment, the threats seem so distant, but Yuta still remembers every one of them. She could never just stay there, a nerve snapping anytime harm was meant to the ones she holds dear.

“During exams our first year, you refused to let Johnny stay up all night alone to study, so you stayed with him even though you were done with all of yours.” 

Yuta picks at the skin of her finger, and she stops when Taeyong goes silent.

“He got top marks on that. Best in the film department.” she mumbles. The smile on Johnny’s face that day had been worth any sleepless night.

Taeyong wiggles to get their arm out from under her, and they lie on their side, eye to eye, pulling the covers over both of them. “You’re a fucking gem, Yuta.”

The bluntness of it takes Yuta by surprise, and she can’t say anything back. Taeyong smiles and wraps an arm around her waist, keeps her anchored to reality.

Yuta swallows hard, tries to keep the tears down even though she knows it’s useless. It’s the point she’s been trying to get to, not breaking but breaking through, to something more than just pain and struggle, with brief moments of light.

When she looks up, Taeyong is still there, and so is she. She isn’t falling through the cracks anymore. 

“I’m not-” she starts, and Taeyong looks like they’re about to scold her. “I’m not my issues. I’m not my suffering. I’m… stronger than this.” 

Taeyong’s face lights up. “That’s right. And I,” they announce, pushing Yuta on her back so they can snuggle against her chest. “Am happy to hear you say it.”

Her eyes fixed on the ceiling, Yuta imagines a future where it is an absolute truth. “I needed to.” 

The digital clock on the nightstand barely marks 10 but Taeyong yawns, letting out an embarrassed giggle when Yuta pinches them for it. “Hey!” 

Taeyong hides their face against Yuta’s chest, blowing warm air against the sweater when they laugh some more. They burrow under the cover like a kid and Yuta wonders if her life had been any different, had she met Taeyong when they were still children, unaware of the world’s cold cruelty. 

It takes her only a second then to decide she’d had enough of _what if_ s. From now on, what needs to be will be, and the rest doesn’t need to matter.

“Yongie?” she calls, and Taeyong whines a little, feigning being woken up. “We’re going to make it. All of us.”

It’s not a question anymore. Taeyong mutters a yes as they cling to Yuta, sleep catching up to them. They’re smiling when their eyes fall shut, and Yuta waits until they're breathing easy to let herself drift off. 

  
  


***

  
  


There was a time, and places, where the room would have felt too small. Right now it’s just right, Yuta weaving through the crowd of other artists, everyone putting their pieces up and adjusting the display before the doors open. 

When they all arrived, the place didn’t look that much different from the art studio at school, baren white walls and neon lights overhead. But it didn’t feel cold, not like how Yuta had felt when she’d seen the studio for the first time, when she wondered if she’d ever be able to show her true work, or have to blend into the walls. 

As the room slowly comes alive, with photographs and sculptures and video projections, with color and sound and light, Yuta feels a chill of excitement running up her spine. This is where she belongs.

She can barely take one step outside before there’s an arm around her shoulders, Taeil’s voice coming from just a little way away. Yuta looks up to find Johnny staring at her with the biggest grin on his face as the rest of the group pours into the street from the main road. She hadn’t really counted on all of them showing up, with the workload of midterms and the expectations of life, but thinking about it now Yuta realizes there isn’t much else she could have expected.

“You’re going to keep us out for long?” Doyoung asks, their voice effectively muffled by the scarf that covers half their face. 

Jaehyun loops their arms together and burrows his nose in the fabric around Doyoung’s neck to keep them warm when Yuta shoots them an apologetic look. “This one’s just being pissy today.” Jaehyun says, pushing against Doyoung’s shoulder. It’s for nothing, Doyoung simply disappearing further into their scarf, and Johnny laughs so heartily Yuta can feel his ribcage vibrating against hers. 

‘We’ll wait as much as we need, plus I’m pretty sure Taeil has grog in their tumbler.” Johnny cocks an eyebrow in Taeil’s direction as they feign shock and horror. “That’ll keep us warm.” 

Taeil sticks their tongue out and retrieves said tumbler from their bag, taking a long swig while maintaining direct eye contact with Johnny. It lasts two seconds at most but Yuta watches Kun go through every emotion imaginable as Taeil drinks.

“I’m honestly surprised you didn’t check what’s in there.” Doyoung mumbles from behind their scarf. 

Kun makes a distressed noise in the back of her throat. “You’d think I could trust my definitely adult partner,” she says as Taeil smiles and kisses her cheek. “But sometimes life just throws you a curveball.” 

It’s only when everyone’s attention is diverted to Taeil and Kun’s decidedly unorthodox relationship that Yuta notices Sicheng at the back of the group, leaning against the wall of a building between Mark and Yukhei. 

They’ve seen each other since letting go, but somehow this is different. Somehow, Sicheng showing up for her like this makes Yuta’s breath catch in her throat, a momentary loss of oxygen that makes her head spin. She’s happy.

“They weren’t just going to not come, you know.” Johnny says, without even looking at her, like he can read her mind. “You’ve made it this far by yourself. They want to celebrate it, we all do.”

Yuta reasons that it’s true. Sicheng has been there, even in the after, a friendly figure still. Maybe it’s because Sicheng will be able to see all the things they escaped, all the things Yuta spared them, that she feels almost scared at the thought of letting them inside the room.

She doesn’t get much more time to think about it. The gallery owner bursts through the door just then, calling for her. “We’re opening in two minutes, come in to make sure everything’s ready.”

It takes a few seconds to free herself from under Johnny’s arm, the warmth and comfort almost too enticing, and Johnny gives her a wink and a thumbs up when Yuta goes inside again, dragging Taeyong in with her.

There’s a thread that has come unbound on her piece so she fixes it up, ties a sturdier knot than before. Taeyong stands at a distance to tell her how the view looks, but she’s satisfied regardless. Perfection isn’t what she’s aiming for, even if it used to be. Settling for finished doesn’t feel like settling at all anymore.

“I’m going to go round up the pack.” Taeyong leans in to whisper, squeezing Yuta’s hand before they slip through the front door. “You got this.”

Any day before this, Yuta would have simply taken their word and forced herself to believe it. Now, as all the artists gather for the pre-show briefing and cheers, she feels like she actually does have all the cards in hand, finally knows what to do with the hand she’s been dealt.

“Thank you so much for all your contributions,” the owner says, waving a hand around the room. “We’ve been trying to get this project off the ground for months, and it wouldn’t have been possible without all of you volunteering your art, the contents of your souls to it. All of your pieces reflect your own message, your own truth. It’s important that people see them. Thank you!”

They finish off the speech with a single round of applause, and soon everyone follows. The noise would have been too much, too loud and too aggressive, if Yuta had been anywhere else, in the school’s exhibition space, in one of the confined classrooms. But the institution doesn’t get her the way these people do, and she isn’t the outsider anymore. 

This time, she belongs.

The usher opens the door and people come trickling in, each greeting a different artist, some going directly for the gallery owner, congratulations and words of support pouring out of everyone’s heart. 

It doesn’t take long for her friends to stumble in, and Yuta feels like something in her is born anew. 

Jaehyun makes a beeline for her spot, camera at the ready, Doyoung following behind as they try to shove their scarf inside their bag. Yukhei, Jungwoo and Mark are nearly bouncing off the metaphorical walls, eyes wide and bright as they hover around every piece, not daring to touch anything but letting themselves be touched by it nonetheless. As Johnny tiptoes over to them to call them back, Yuta sees two blurs and then two bodies crash into her, two pairs of arms holding her tight and still, in the moment.

“I’m so proud of you.” Ten says, barely disguising the crack in his voice, and Yuta wonders if he’ll cry even before she does.

“We all are.” Taeyong mumbles into her shoulder, inhaling sharply as they step away to look at her. 

Kun squeezes past the two of them, Ten catching her around the waist to hold her there. They’re all looking at Yuta and they’re looks she wants to keep and cherish, for today, maybe forever. 

“Good idea after all, uh?” Kun says, smile on her face. 

Yuta huffs a little at that, remembering her doubts about the exhibition, about whether she was good enough. Good is enough for now, she thinks. “As always, with you.” 

For all that she and everyone else teases Kun about her motherly tendencies and her sometimes nagging protectiveness, she hasn’t often, if ever, been wrong about this kind of thing. She never holds it against any of them though, simply is there at every step, and she’s here at the end of this road, the beginning of another. 

Something moves behind the huddle, and when Taeyong turns around to check on the group, they take a step aside, motion for Kun and Ten to do the same. Yuta pays it no mind as another of the artists comes to talk to her, congratulating her on her first show. She figures they’re a regular in this sort of thing, remembers their installation had taken since early morning to set up. She sees it from across the room, a flurry of colors and lights and pictures mosaiced across the wall, some faces she thinks she recognizes, others she wishes she could get to know one day. 

They cast a glow over the room, keep out the cold.

“Oh, better excuse myself,” the person remarks, looking over Yuta’s shoulder. “Looks like someone wants to talk to you. It was very nice meeting you, though, hope to see you around more often!” 

And then they walk off, leaving Yuta’s reply hanging in the air. She takes a second to herself, breathes in and out so deeply she can feel her lungs filling up. When she spins around, the air stays where it is, oxygen keeping her on her feet.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing better.” Sicheng says, and there’s nothing but genuine care in their voice. 

Yuta smiles at the ground, and then she smiles at Sicheng, the two of them happy in the moment like the room has frozen in time. “I’m almost there.” she muses. The room comes alive again. 

She hears the click of Jaehyun’s camera as he walks around the room to capture everyone’s stories, sees Mark mesmerized by the video installations at the back, watches for a passing instant as Taeyong walks by and they give her a nod and a knowing smile.

There’s so much Yuta wants to say. Looking at Sicheng, it feels like the contents of her soul are about to pour out just for them, all the sorry ’s and _i miss you_ ' s and i _love you_ ’s she wants to give herself a chance to say one day getting stuck in her throat, just short of rolling off her tongue. But there’s still time. She’s sure, for once, that she still has miles to go before the end, that her life as she knows it is worth its weight in gold. 

So she gives herself the time for this, too.

“I think it’s the first time I’m really satisfied with a piece,” she gestures towards the spot where her project stands. “I’ve turned in stuff for school that people have told me was good but this feels true, you know?”

Sicheng lets their gaze linger, takes everything in. “It’s very you. That’s what matters, right?”

It is. When she looks back at her work, Yuta knows she put everything in it, all the things she never admitted to herself, all the pain she kept locked away, growing and festering inside. Having it out there in the open feels like an exorcism, like she’s finally ready to move, onwards, and forward always.

The crowd moves from piece to piece and soon they get to hers, gathering around the stand. Sicheng steps to the side, keeps their eyes on Yuta, a look that says enough.

The camera shutter clicks again. 

Johnny’s voice comes up over the crowd. “A word from the artist?”

Having this many people see her art, the blood on her hands, would be scary, too much to bear, if Yuta were alone. But she isn’t. She wrings her hands, looks at her piece, at the rough edges and the tangles, and for the first time, she sees the beauty in it.

Light from behind peeks through the threads.

“This is my heart,” she says for anyone to hear. “It’s mangled, but it’s whole.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading~
> 
> i feel like recovery has been a long time coming for yuta in this verse, and i promise things only go up from here.
> 
> a small note on updates: i'm going to try to keep them consistent, and i have the next few updates planned out already, but i am also participating in neo collective's nct secret santa this year, so i'll be prioritizing that over the new few weeks! i'll try to write a little of both everyday though, so please stay tuned~
> 
> as always, i'm over on [twitter](http://twitter.com/seoyoungoth) if you want to chat! love ya!


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